"I would teach you, Garin, if you ask it of me."
Garin's mouth hung open, but he didn't know what to say. He wasn't sure the warlock had ever addressed him by name. All he could do was stare until Aelyn huffed and broke the trance.
"You and the boy have no rapport, warlock. Garin will be taught by—"
"Kaleras." The word escaped Garin before he had even thought it. As Aelyn's eyes bulged from his skull, he fumbled to follow it up. "Magister — that is, Kaleras — will you instruct me in sorcery?"
The warlock nodded slowly, his oak-brown eyes never wavering. "I will. We'll begin this evening."
Garin could only nod wordlessly. Then, not wishing to remain a moment longer beside an irate Aelyn, he spurred his stor back up next to Wren.
She twisted around in her saddle at his approach. "What was that all about? Aelyn looks like he's going to set a devil on you. Or rather, another one," she added with a smirk.
He raised a sardonic eyebrow in return. "Kaleras is teaching me sorcery."
All her smugness disappeared. "What? Truly?"
"Truly."
He had rarely seen Wren speechless. She looked back at the warlock and mage, then again at Garin. Slowly, the smile returned to her.
"Ah," she said as she settled back into her seat. "I see."
"You see what?"
"It's obvious, really." Wren rolled her eyes. "He's taking you on because you were Tal's apprentice once, or whatever you two called it."
"You think so?"
But even as he questioned it, Garin wondered if she was right. Kaleras had been softer toward him even before that moment. Gone was the hard-eyed suspicion he'd displayed in the Coral Castle, replaced now by the kindly consideration of a great uncle — though, it had to be admitted, a distantly related great uncle. Perhaps, if there was anyone who could understand and forgive an accidental stabbing due to an inadvertent possession, it would be a warlock.
But why would my friendship with Tal make a difference to Kaleras?
It was a question that he suspected would needle him for a while to come.
Wren sighed. "Well, I'd better go placate Aelyn by asking to be his little mentee."
Garin brightened at the prospect. "That's brilliant! He'll have to do what you want or risk losing to Kaleras — you know that's how he'll see this."
"Of course he will." She raised her eyebrows as she fell back. "Just as I planned."
Garin watched her long enough to see Wren position herself by Kaleras' side, then turned back, grinning to himself. She was wily, his Wren.
He only wished he knew if he could still honestly call her "his."
As promised, Kaleras called him to his side of the fire for the lesson that evening. Ahead of them, the caravan had made camp on the road, and their fires were pools of light in the vast dark landscape. Though clouds still covered the sky, the drifts of snow caught the little light that snuck through and faintly glowed like a ghostly sea.
Garin stood before the warlock, uncertain. On the other side of the campfire, he saw Aelyn hurriedly beckoning to Wren. He hid a smile, and his nerves quickly banished it.
Kaleras had been sitting, but as Garin came before him, he stood, though it cost him evident effort. "Thank you for allowing me the opportunity to teach you, Garin," he said formally, honoring him with a slight nod.
Garin stared for a moment before his wits returned to him. Bowing, he replied, "Thank you for teaching me, Mag — erm, Kaleras."
The elderly man nodded, then gestured to the packed snow underfoot. "Sit. Before we do anything else, there are matters we must discuss."
Seating himself cross-legged and wincing at the cold seeping through his pants, Garin averted his eyes as Kaleras lowered himself back to the ground. He didn't know how old the man was, but he seemed to have grown older since their time in Halenhol. He wondered, with no small measure of guilt, if the fault lay with him and the poison he had injected into his veins.
You've caused me a lot of strife and guilt, he thought idly to Ilvuan, expecting no response and receiving none.
When Kaleras was settled, he sat up, straight-backed, and caught Garin's gaze. "First, we must address the source of your power."
Garin swallowed. "Right."
"I have read Tal's fable, Garin. I understand it is not a devil that spawns your abilities — not precisely."
It took him a moment to catch his meaning. "Fable? You mean that book he always carried around?"
Kaleras nodded. "A Fable of Song and Blood. I read only the copied pages he left in my drawer, but I doubt he would make anything less than a faithful reproduction. They were strange ideas, but… not without their consistencies."
Garin, not knowing how to respond, waited expectantly.
"Your experience of sorcery," the warlock continued. "Please describe it to me, beginning with its inception."
Taking in a deep breath, Garin began the lengthy explanation. He told of the cursed amulet he had inadvertently picked up in the Ruins of Erlodan. He spoke of the whispers in his head, growing steadily stronger, and the discordant sounds of the Nightsong that haunted him. He told of the Darktongue spells that sprang onto his tongue of their own accord, and of how they had saved him from the ghouls and the bandit in the woods. And, after great hesitation, he even spoke of Ilvuan, of the devil naming himself to him and the growing trust between them.
Then came a moment where his reluctance stumbled him to a stop. The memory of Ilvuan bursting from him, and their dance together — he didn't know how to explain that.
Much less that he'd seen the Singer in the form of a dragon.
But Kaleras seemed to take his silence for a conclusion, for he nodded. "Hellexa Yoreseer's fable must be true, at least in part. You are a Fount of Song."
Fount of Song. Tal had told him as much, though it felt like ages ago. But even when he'd explained it, Garin had never really understood.
"What does it mean?"
"You should know better than I — but I will explain the tome's theory, at least. Hellexa Yoreseer, the author of the book, claimed there is a thing called the Worldheart, locked deep in the East's mountains in a place called Paradise. What this Worldheart is, she has only guesses. Drawing from ancient accounts, she says it resembles a large, black boulder veined with molten red lines like lava, and that it is carved into the shape of grand beasts. Yoreseer believed it not merely stone, but sorcery incarnate, magic made material. Just like in the tale of the Whispering Gods and the Night, the Worldheart is supposed to contain infinite power — the might of all creation and destruction.
"Yoreseer also believed the Worldheart has a sentience of a sort — that the World itself is alive and seeking to influence the events upon its surface, similar to the elven ideas of Mother World. And by this will, the Worldheart creates beings with its 'blood' and 'song' — Founts such as yourself. Through the Founts, chaos has been sown across the East. Yoreseer feared this must mean the Worldheart seeks a new master."
"A new master?"
Kaleras' gaze was shadowed, his eyes only occasionally reflecting the lick of the flames to their side. "The Worldheart, Yoreseer claimed, is presently possessed by the Enemy himself."
A shiver like an icy finger traced over his neck.
"But if that's all true," Garin pressed, "if Yuldor has infinite power, then he should have won the Eternal Animus long ago."
Kaleras inclined his head. "A valid supposition. But we have strayed from the original point. I need to understand your sorcery, Garin, if I'm to teach you. Your experience differs from mine as a warlock, but not vastly in its application. The Four Roots should still be relevant."
"They are." Garin nodded across the fire toward Aelyn and Wren, who were practicing what appeared to be cantrips with bursts of fire and ice. "Aelyn taught them to me."
"Good. Then you understand the theory?"
At Garin's nod, Kaleras motioned for them to stand again, which took the old warlock a moment to accomplish. "Then let's see
what you can do."
The rest of the evening was spent with Garin demonstrating the cantrips he knew. As he cast them, the Nightsong sounded in his ears, discordant once more. He winced and wished it could be otherwise. But, as Tal had once commented, When hoping for rain, wishing's no better than pissing.
Despite the discomfort his spellcasting cost him, Garin went to his bedroll that night satisfied. The lesson with Kaleras was only the first step toward progress, but it was a step in the right direction.
For now, he mused as he hunched into a shivering ball against Wren's back and drifted to sleep, that would have to be enough.
The Reach of the Past
"There it is," Pim announced as he reached the top of the rise ahead of Tal. "Vathda, Haven of the Hyalkasi Range."
Tal didn't have the breath for a response. It was their third day of traveling together, and the odd elf had not slowed his pace in that entire time. Tal, on the other hand, seemed to grow wearier with each mile. Sustaining the dam on his sorcery cost increasing effort. His pains ebbed and flowed, but seemed to rise with each cycle, like a river swelling after torrential rains.
But he wasn't one to complain or slow. Tal was, after all, a legend.
If only being a hero wasn't such damned drudgery.
He plodded his way up the rise to stand next to Pim, then looked down. Darkness was quickly falling, as it was wont to do early among the mountains, but the town was still visible below. At once, he could tell it was a dwarven settlement. The houses slid past the eye, almost invisible, as they were cut from the rocky outcroppings and cliffs. Only a few structures were built in a human manner, with honest timber and thatched roofs. One looked large enough to be a great hall. With time, he assumed that would change, as they carved out a more permanent structure within the mountains.
The sight of dwarven work almost brought a smile to his lips. It had been a decade and a half since he had walked among the wonders those of the Stalwart Bloodline constructed, much less interacted with the doughty folk. But a smile did not quite come. After all, he hadn't had the sweetest of partings from Dhuulheim, the land of the clans, and dwarves' memories were long.
He could only hope that here in the East, his past would not catch up to him once more.
"A homely enough village," Pim commented into Tal's silence, "but a welcoming people all the same. And honest folk are rare to come by, are they not?"
Tal grunted in response, provoking a laugh from the elf.
"Quite eloquent of you, Master Bran! Your point is well taken. But we should not delay — dark will be upon us soon, and we have a mile to descend."
He withheld his gripes as his eyes caught upon something in the distance. Pointing, Tal said between breaths, "What's that?"
Pim squinted. "Why, it appears to be the glow of campfires. How odd."
Tal's gut tightened with more than his exertion now. "Who would be camping now?" he muttered, though he suspected he already knew the answer.
The elf shrugged, unconcerned. "The dwarves often send out patrols into the surrounding area to monitor the movements of the many beasts that threaten them. Or perhaps it is a late season hunting party. I am certain it is nothing to worry about, my good prospector."
Tal wasn't sure he agreed. But he made no objection as the sprightly elf shouldered his pack and led the way down the ridge.
They had only a little left to travel, but to his tortured legs, it seemed an impossible distance to cross. All he could do was grit his teeth and hope his strength would last. They fell into silence as they carefully hopped across a boulder field. Their off-trail path was, according to Pim, faster than taking the road on the other side of the river, but it required constant vigilance — especially when Tal felt a well-timed breeze could knock him over.
After a long section of scrambling, the boulder field ended, and the edge of the town appeared before them. Pim halted at several standing stones that stood like giant sentinels, then turned back to Tal.
"Best of luck, Bran. When you have the supplies you need, meet me at the edge of town. Then we can continue on to the place where your canker may be healed."
The unexpected statement cut through Tal's misery. He stared at his companion.
"I thought we were both taking shelter here."
The elf laughed, too loud for Tal's liking. "Oh, no! I do not sleep under stone ceilings. But these are dwarves from the Westreach — surely, such countrymen will only be too happy to see you?"
Tal donned a smile as his mind peeled apart Pim's words. Did he imply what he suspected? But if he knew of Tal's past with the Stalwart folk, then it meant he did know who he was — just as impossible of a notion.
"Who are you, really, Pim?" he asked softly.
The elf cocked his head, a few strands of his pale blonde hair spilling free of his hood. "A curious question you keep asking me. Let me answer with a query of my own: What answer do you hope to receive?"
"The truth, preferably."
Pim laughed again. "Then you are a fool, Bran the Prospector."
Tal heard footsteps approaching. A glance up showed the glow of a torch. His gut grew tighter still.
"A sentiment I've echoed often enough," he muttered as he turned toward the oncoming greeting party.
The dwarves were silhouetted by torchlight as they stalked between the sentinel stones. By Tal's count, there were six of them, steel glinting in their hands. Three stood back, two with crossbows cradled in their arms, one bearing the torch. The other three advanced with axes and hammers lowered and bared. As with every dwarf he had encountered, they were four feet tall, nearly as broad as they were wide, and looked too stocky to be nimble. But past experience with the cavern-dwelling people had taught Tal never to underestimate their speed and prowess. When it came to battle, Tal would rather have a dwarf berserker by his side than an elven Dancer, and just the opposite if he had to face them.
"Who do you be, lingering at the edge of our settlement?" the dwarf leading the others barked. His silver beard gleamed at the edges in the scant torchlight at his back, and his horned helm lent him a warrior's air.
"Laughing and sneaking, he is," the dwarf to the leader's left huffed, a brown-bearded fellow whose movements sent the beads in his facial hair clattering.
Tal held up his hands and put on his most sincere smile. "My apologies for our late arrival, good folk," he said. "We are merely travelers hoping to shelter within your fine thorp of Vathda."
The dwarf to the leader's right spat on the stone. The lack of beard on her chin, ubiquitous among their males, showed her to be female. "'We,' is it? He's tunnel-mad, Kherdorn."
Suspecting the source of the misunderstanding, Tal glanced to the side. Where Pim had been, only darkness filled the space now. He sighed.
"I'm not yet crazy — well, perhaps only a little. But I've been traveling by myself for a time," he lied smoothly. Then, hit with inspiration, he switched from speaking in the Reachtongue to the common Stonetongue, altering his voice to be lower and gruffer. "But I've forgotten my manners. Greetings, friends. I pray your mines are fruitful and your walls strong."
The elder dwarf let out a sudden guffaw. "So, you speak the Stonetongue!" he responded in the same language. "You are full of surprises, Master Stranger. We have few mines here, and our walls are bolstered daily — but the old blessing still holds. Now, who are you, and why have you come to Vathda?"
Tal bowed, his arm positioned before him as if to cradle a long beard and prevent it from sweeping against the ground. "I am Bran of the clan Cairn. I come from Elendol as a refugee, fleeing the conflict that has broken out between the Peers. Having heard of Vathda and Reach dwarves here in the savage East, I sought out your settlement, hoping to shelter from the snows for a time."
The elder dwarf — Kherdorn, Tal assumed — let out a snort. "Enough with the bowing and 'clanning' — you're half and again taller than a dwarf, and we both see it. We may have a hovel you can squeeze into, though times are tight in the winter. But
it will cost you honest silver."
Tal kept the smile perched on his lips as he mulled over how to respond. How he would pay for the shelter and food he hoped to secure, he had not the slightest clue. But it was far from the first time Tal had wandered into a town destitute and weary.
"Silver and gold I am presently lacking," he said, lowering his head. To be poor in precious metals was especially shameful among dwarves, and he acted accordingly. "But I'm a man of many talents and useful knowledge. Perhaps I can provide some assistance with some problem your people face?"
The female dwarf spat again. He wondered if her disgust could only be displayed as such, or if she had a particular problem with phlegm.
The elder dwarf glanced her way, then back at Tal. "Takes guts to brave the snows of the Devil's Talons, especially with as few possessions as you have. Sarut! Bring that torch closer. If we're going to invite a peculiar human in, I'd best have a proper look at him."
Tal's hands clenched into fists, the nubs of his missing fingers throbbing with fresh agony. This was the final test. He wondered if, had he undammed his sorcery, he might have woven an illusion to disguise his features. But dwarven lineage gifted them with a resistance to glamour. To pass, it would have to have been as flawless an illusion as he'd ever cast, and in his current state, he doubted perfection was within his grasp.
The torchbearer moved closer, and Tal winced at the increased brightness. But he tried to maintain an amiable smile as the dwarves examined him.
"Ah, now I can see you." Kherdorn said the words in a low rumble, and as Tal wondered if there was more left unsaid, the dwarf continued in a louder voice. "Alright, then. Hand over your steels and come with us. We have to get the Clan Chief's approval before any ales are passed around."
After a moment's hesitation, Tal complied with the request. If he were to resist, blades would be the least of his weapons, even Velori. When he had been relieved of his arms, Kherdorn waved for Tal to follow him. He watched the dwarves as he passed between them, trying not to look wary even as every instinct fought against turning his back on them. But they had him unarmed, surrounded, and outnumbered, to make no mention of the two crossbows trained on his heart. Even unencumbered by the canker, he would have been hard-pressed to overcome such odds at close quarters.
An Emperor's Gamble (Legend of Tal: Book 3) Page 6